


Renegade

by HushTheNoise



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Assassin AU, Blood, Enjolras is his mark, Grantaire is a mercenary, I promise this ends well, I've never written something like this but doing my best, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HushTheNoise/pseuds/HushTheNoise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire finds himself unwilling to carry out his latest assignment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reputation and Good Intent

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Orestesfasting on tumblr. Her idea was just too good to pass up.

No one gives a second thought to the blond young man standing a few paces away from the dimly lit and greasy door against the side of the alley. With his dark green hoodie and jeans baggier than would be considered fashionable, he might be any of the pool hall patrons stepping outside for a quick breath of chill air, chased down with a barrage of nicotine and tar.

He’s not a patron, and he’s on his third cigarette.

Grantaire doesn’t even smoke, he’s pretty apathetic to the experience (though a good glass of scotch-- now _that_ he could write whole sonnets on). But it makes for a quick explanation as to why he’d be standing in a shady alley at, oh, 11:30 in the evening.

He loves jobs like these, pathetically predictable targets that always show up where they’re supposed to _when_ they’re supposed to. As far as he’s concerned, they’re overpaying him, but he’s not going to be the one to tell them that. He takes another drag of the cigarette, smoke clouding his mouth as he glances at his watch. 11:32. He exhales.

The door opens and a figure stumbles out, rummaging in the pockets of his cargo shorts for a lighter as Grantaire takes quick inventory. Blue Polo shirt, white Nikes, diamond stud in the left ear.

He’s out of the shadows before the man can react, his gloved hand over the stranger’s mouth as a knife pierces the man’s kidney.  Grantaire swiftly slides the blade across his throat, leaning his target’s head forward to prevent a Pollock of arterial spray from decorating the alley wall as the man slumps into his arms, splotches of crimson seeping into the blue shirt. Grantaire gently slides the body to a seating position, propping him up against the wall as the blade disappears up his own wrist, and he surveys the scene one last time with satisfaction. .

11:32.

He’s a good ten blocks away before he snatches the blond wig off his head, stuffing it under his hoodie as he makes for his favorite bar, a cheerfully whistled tune drifting on the night breeze.

\---------

    It’s a monstrous hangover that wakes him the next morning, mouth like sandpaper and the daylight viciously stabbing his corneas as he rolls over with a groan. He’s more than acquainted with this brand of Purgatory; nowhere near functional enough to get up, and in too much pain to go back to sleep. It always seems like a great idea when he’s sober, drink until either he can’t sit up or the world makes sense.

    He’s never quite made it to the latter.

    But oh god it’s like someone pulled a supernova into his bedroom while he slept, why couldn’t he remember to shut the goddamn curtains just once in his life…

    He blindly feels around his night stand for the two pain killers and the glass of water Bahorel leaves out for him, grateful, as he always is, for the friends who put up with his drunken ass. The pills feel like razor blades down his throat but the water goes far towards mending some of the damage he wreaked on himself last night. But not so far that it doesn’t still take him a good hour and a half to work up the strength to roll out of bed.

    Breakfast -- which at this point is really lunch -- consists of dry toast and something gooey and greasy that he’s had sitting in the fridge for a few days. It stays down, so he figures it can’t have been all that rotten.

    He’s chugging back half a gallon of orange juice out of a jug when his cell phone vibrates from where it sits on the coffee table. He doesn’t bother looking over, wiping his mouth as he shuts the fridge door and letting the call go to voicemail.

    He knows who it is. His friends all know better than to call at any time before 3 in the afternoon on most days, and his parents are busy off enjoying their around-the-world retirement luxury cruise trip. Employers usually prefer it when he voice-confirms, but to be perfectly honest, he doesn’t feel like talking to anyone, not even a machine.

    So it’s at least another two hours before he picks up his phone, punching in his voicemail pin and listening to the robotic voice on the other end inform him that the transaction has been completed. He doesn’t bother checking his accounts; most of it will be gone in a matter of days anyway, to be replaced soon enough by earnings from other jobs.

    He spends a few hours flipping through channels, restlessly jumping from a daytime drama to a talk show to Jerry Springer, before switching the receiver to his favorite satellite radio station and spending the rest of the evening at his easel by the large glass window that overlooks a city bathed in the setting sun.

\-------

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs against the soft waves of her hair as Eponine wraps her arms around him, pleased that he could make it to her party after all. He hadn’t been too sure he would be back for it, though with a little time crunching he’d been able to neutralize the head of a vague, yet menacing government agency and mosey back just in time for some cake and ice cream.

Bahorel thumps him on the back in greeting and Grantaire manages to hold on to his lungs long enough to shoot him a grin in return. Casting a glance around the modest apartment, he can see the turn-out is pretty great and he would have been one of the only two left out of the celebration (Feuilly had a scheduling conflict at his job, unfortunately-- but he did send along a gift card and a bouquet of flowers, so all was forgiven).

“Work’s still pretty hectic, huh?” asks Jehan later in the kitchen with a kind smile, and Grantaire takes a swig of his beer -- his second and last for the night, as he promised Eponine.

“That, and jet lag’s just killing me, you know? Travel and pay is great, but it kinda sucks when I’m wide awake at 4 in the morning,” he confesses, and Jehan nods understandingly. He thinks Grantaire works in foreign affairs-- they all do.

Which technically he does sometimes, so it’s not _all_ lies.

    When Eponine unwraps her gift at the end of the party, she beams at Grantaire and thanks him for the lovely painting of various birds of paradise, her favorites. Grantaire motions at her with a twirl of his finger and she turns the painting over to find an envelope taped to the back.

    The undiluted, pure joy on her face when she peers inside keeps him sober for a week.

\---------

    He’s yanked out of his nightmare-ridden sleep by the chiming tones of his cell phone, and he sluggishly fumbles around for it for a few seconds before holding it up to his ear.

    “M’llo?” he grumbles into the receiver, not even bothering to open his eyes.

    “Got a job for you.”

    “This couldn’t fuckin’ wait ‘till mornin’?” he groans, this not being the first -- and knowing him, probably not last -- time that Combeferre drops him an assignment in the middle of the night.

    “‘Fraid not, you’ve got a flight to catch in a couple of hours. Someone’s paying a lot of money to get this guy gone quickly and quietly.”

    “How much?”

Combeferre rattles off a number that has Grantaire pushing himself up onto his elbows.

    “Fucking Christ, he’s not president of some country, is he? Because I told you after the last one---” Grantaire warns, and Combeferre cuts him off snort.

    “Yeah yeah, I know. Nah, they just want him gone without any major attention getting called to it. So, you know. Work cut out for you and all that.”

    “Exciting. Send me the details while I grab another hour of sleep.”

    “Sure thing. Oh by the way… dress warm.”

    Grantaire lets the phone drop onto the blanket beside him as he falls back onto the bed with a long-suffering sigh.

\------------

    They set him up in a hotel 4,000 miles from his warm, sunny condo, in the middle of a frigid winter he’d only wish on his worst enemies, and Grantaire has nothing but swear words for Combeferre when his friend texts him the location of this mission’s supplies.

    He finds the storage unit without too much trouble, grabbing the two cases and taking them back with him to his blissfully mild hotel room. As Grantaire thaws by the electric fireplace, he leafs through the packet of information on his target.

    He’s supplied with a name and a physical description, along with an address and a map of both the city and the house. Hopefully Combeferre will pull through on his end and Grantaire can nail this sucker and get the hell out of this frozen hell within four days, max.

    The last sheet in the file is a photograph, and Grantaire’s brows furrow as he examines it. The features are fine, delicate in an almost feminine way and framed by a crop of gold ringlets that fall over the most compelling blue eyes Grantaire has ever seen. With looks like those, the man could be a model. Shit, for all Grantaire knows, that’s what he could very well be. No great loss on the world’s part if that’s the case, as far as he’s concerned, though it does make him wonder why anyone would go to such lengths to get rid of him.

    It’s nearly three days before Combeferre sends him the go-ahead, days Grantaire has spent lounging around the hotel and watching whatever the HBO and Showtime channels are offering. It’s the plus side of working with a professional intermediary. Combeferre and his team take care of the surveillance and the legwork, and all Grantaire has to do is show up, point, and shoot. It does mean the money gets spread around a little more thinly, but Grantaire’s never minded if it makes the jobs easier to carry out.

    He’s on his way five minutes after his phone chimes with the coordinates, the floorplan of the house memorized and the method of entry determined. This guy, this _Enjolras_ , as it says on the file, thankfully lives alone in a modest two-bedroom home he’s renting just at the edge of town. The neighbors might have been a problem, but the large picket fence gives Grantaire enough cover that he can move about without calling attention to himself.

    The grass is a bit tall, almost to his ankles, and even in the dim light of the moon, Grantaire can see landscaping isn’t exactly high on Enjolras’ list of priorities. He has to duck and weave to avoid the branches of an overgrown Evergreen bush just to reach the back door, some quick fiddling with his lockpicks allowing him into the silent house seconds later.

    Quietly, he follows the map ingrained in his mind towards the back of the house where Enjolras’ bedroom is. Though it never hurts to have it, he keeps the flashlight he brought with him off, never needing it as the path, clear as day in his mind, guides his feet.

    There’s no light peeking from beneath the bedroom door as Grantaire eases it open slowly, slipping into the room as he removes his pistol from inside his jacket. As he pads towards the bed, a sense of dread fills him as he realizes that the sheets have been thrown back and the slumbering body that should be lying there, well, _isn’t_.

    His eyes dart around the room in alarm as a flood of sudden light nearly blinds him, the bathroom door thrown open to reveal a lean young man in a pair of boxers and… really nothing else. Grantaire instinctively lifts his pistol to aim, though something causes him to hesitate as he takes in Enjolras’ shocked expression.

    The snapshot Combeferre had given him wasn’t nearly so accurate in capturing Enjolras as he thought. Shit, Grantaire knows he could attempt to paint him for the next decade and never succeed in doing this Greek God of a man any justice. But it’s not just the lean muscles and slender figure that ensnare his attention.

    Grantaire expects fear, for Enjolras to plead for his life, or lunge for a weapon, or run and hide. Instead the young man’s shock has given way to a calm sort of courage. Shoulders squared and spine straight, Enjolras meets his attacker’s gaze with a fierceness that has Grantaire almost squirming in place.

    And then he speaks. Six words, softly uttered, but with a power that warms Grantaire down to his bones.

    “You don’t have to do this.”

    And Grantaire, to his misfortune, finds that he doesn’t want to.

Which leaves him with only one option, really, an option he takes without a second thought.

Tearing his gaze away from his mark with reluctance, Grantaire swiftly backs out of the bedroom and makes a run for the back door, figuring he can be a good distance away by the time the police arrive if he’s quick. He’s surprised when he doesn’t hear sirens or see any cop cars as he makes his way back to the hotel, and after making sure the door and windows have been secured, he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed and buries his face in his hands with a heavy sigh.

“ _Shit_ ,” he breathes to himself as the silence of the room is pierced by the urgent ringing of his phone.


	2. Maybe It's Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It definitely wasn't a fluke.

_“I need you to tell me exactly what the fuck happened,”_ demands Combeferre as Grantaire finally picks up on the 32nd ring.

“Nothing happened, I--”

_“Yes I’m **aware** nothing happened, that’s what I need you to explain to me.”_

Grantaire grips the bridge of his nose, breathing out a sigh like a deflating punching doll.

“He wasn’t where he was supposed to be, he saw me coming, I panicked.”

 _“You don’t panic,”_ Combeferre says flatly.

“ _I panicked.”_

“Bullshit.”

Tense silence from both ends for a few seconds as Grantaire struggles with the urge to hang up and drink himself to sleep.

 _“Grantaire, we are being paid exceedingly well to take care of this, in a timely manner,”_ Combeferre reminds him, and Grantaire falls back onto the bed with a groan.

“I know, I know. I fucked up. It won’t happen again, ‘Ferre,” he assures him, and he can hear the furious clack of keys on the other line as Combeferre continues working on what Grantaire can only assume is damage control.

 _“Make sure it doesn’t,”_ Combeferre’s voice returns a few moments later. _“Give me a day to regroup and I’ll hit you up when it’s set.”_

He clicks off without another word, leaving Grantaire alone to contemplate his most recent atrocious life decision.

It was just a fluke. He hadn’t been caught by surprise like that in a long time, and the guy-- it was a _fluke,_ a momentary lapse in judgment. Grantaire will go back in there, put a bullet between Enjolras’ eyes, walk back out and collect his money. He is _not_ going to lose his head a second time. He knows what he is up against now, he is _prepared._

It was just a fluke.

\-------------------------------------

Oh god, no it wasn’t.

He’s… not sure how it happens, actually.

He breaks into Enjolras’ place for a second time to find him in the kitchen taking a boiling pot off the stove. Grantaire can easily end him right there with a single silenced bullet, but instead he gives Enjolras enough time to notice the armed stranger standing on his linoleum.

Enjolras nearly drops the scalding pot when he turns and sees him, and hurries to set it on the counter before it sloshes everywhere and sears the skin off his hands. He turns and glares at Grantaire for a minute, before sighing and spreading his hands in a silent gesture that says, _Just do it._

And fuck him, Grantaire _can’t._ His finger can’t even move to the trigger, and suddenly Enjolras’ glare is a challenge. One that Grantaire cannot rise up to complete.

He lowers the gun with a grunt of frustration, gaze still locked with Enjolras’, who is looking at him intently, and Grantaire can see gears turning in his head as he lowers his hands and tentatively takes a few steps towards the mercenary.

Grantaire opens his mouth to speak, but Enjolras shakes his head and presses a finger to his lips, tugging on his ear to indicate he knows someone is listening. Grantaire, not for the first time, wonders just what kind of person he’s been sent after.

Enjolras is a foot away from him now, hand pulling a slip of paper from his pocket as he picks up Grantaire’s hand, palm up and slides the note onto it. Grantaire looks down to see an address, date, and time written on it.

_1832 Saint-Hyacinthe Rd - Apt. 614_

_Tomorrow, 4 pm_

Enjolras folds the note up in Grantaire’s hand with a grim expression, fingers lingering over the mercenary’s, and Grantaire doesn’t think he’s imagining the plea in his oceanic blue eyes.

 _I’m not here_ , Enjolras quietly mouths at him as he releases Grantaire’s hand and steps back, indicating towards the door. _Go_.

One last hesitant breath, and Grantaire is gone.

\-----------------------------------------

            “ _Are you fucking kidding me right now?”_

“Look, he wasn’t there. I don’t know where he went, but I checked the house, and he just… wasn’t there,” Grantaire lies to an irate Combeferre.

            _“He was there ten seconds before you were in his house, where the hell would he have gone in that time?”_ Combeferre demands, and Grantaire shrugs, before remembering he’s on the phone.

            “I don’t know. Maybe he knew I was coming, somehow.” Not a total lie-- Enjolras was at least expecting him to show up again.

            _“Well he’s certainly gone **now**. No sign of him at the house and no trace of where he’s going. I don’t know what comes before square 1, but that’s where we are right now.” _

            “Look, let me just… I’ll scope out the city, see if I can’t find something.”

            _“ **You’re** going to do footwork?” _ Combeferre answers, sounding less than convinced.

            “It’ll be fine. You just handle the client, tell them… tell them whatever you need to. Leave it to me, I’ll get it done,” says Grantaire, and he actually feels a little guilty for keeping so much from Combeferre. But this is something he needs to sort through himself.

            _“All right,”_ his handler says, still sound uncertain, but resigned. _“Just keep me posted, yeah? And hey-- how’s Eponine doing?”_

            “Still enjoying her all-expenses-paid-for tour through Europe with Cosette, last I heard.”

            _“Ah, good, she’s earned that break.”_

“Yeah she has.”

            _“I’ll call to touch base in a couple of days, don’t do anything stupid.”_

“You know it.”

\------------------------------

Grantaire wouldn’t even know how to explain this one to Combeferre even if he wanted to, but at the moment, he finds himself standing in Enjolras’ house as his supposed target hands him a mug of hot coffee because “it’s only polite when it’s this damn freezing out.”

The address had led him to a set of apartments, run down and having seen much better years, piled atop a cafe that… also looked run down and as if it had seen better years.

He’d found the right apartment five minutes and six flights of stairs later, bypassing ringing the bell to in favor of simply letting himself in. He’d tsked at the lax security and the shitty quality of the lock, thinking Enjolras might have done better at this point.

Enjolras is in the kitchen again, finishing up a french press full of coffee and humming to himself as he grabs himself a mug from the cupboard above him.

Grantaire clears his throat.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Enjolras gasps, turning to greet his guest with a scowl. “You could have knocked like a normal person,” he scolds, and Grantaire opens his mouth to respond before shutting it again and simply giving him a shrug.

Enjolras shakes his head, rolling his eyes as he turns his back on Grantaire to calmly reach into the cupboard and pull down another mug to set beside the one already on the counter.

“So uh...” Grantaire elocutes, completely unsure of how to proceed at this point. This is not a situation he’s ever been in before, and frankly, Enjolras’ gall kind of sparks his curiosity.

Enjolras stirs water into the french press already loaded with coffee grinds before capping it and letting it steep for a minute or two.

“Milk or sugar?” asks Enjolras, and Grantaire sighs, resigned to the fact that this whole… matter is officially out of his hands. 

“....Both? A lot of both, actually.”

Enjolras is handing him a steaming mug moments later and telling Grantaire to sit, pointing him to the kitchen table as he takes his own mug and the chair opposite the mercenary. Grantaire can’t bite his question back any longer.

“What makes you think I won’t still--”

“Because you could have yesterday, and the day before,” Enjolras interrupts smoothly. “Hell, you could have five minutes ago. But you won’t now. Will you?” Grantaire gives him a steely glare that softens and gives way to an eyeroll as he pulls the mug up to his lips.

“All right fine. So what’s all this about, then?” he asks as he sits, taking a sip from the mug and finding himself pleased with what he tastes. He doesn’t miss Enjolras’ smile at that.

“I thought we could talk.”

“Us. Talk,” Grantaire echoes flatly. “ _Why_?”

“Because I don’t think you’re my enemy,” replies Enjolras earnestly. “But you work for one of them. And if I’m right, I know _exactly_ who they are.”

Grantaire shifts uncomfortably, not at all pleased with how this conversation is going.

“So what’s that got to do with me?”

“I need you to stall them while I finish my job.”

“Stall them?” Grantaire echoes, tilting his head skeptically.

“You’re the first person they’ve sent more than once,” Enjolras confesses, and Grantaire starts to understand the desperation these people must have to erase the blond off the map. “Which means that maybe, just _maybe_ … you’re their last resort. You haven’t killed me so I figured… maybe you could help me instead.”

 “And why the hell would I do that?”

“Because these people cause millions in global damage to this earth and its inhabitants _yearly_ just to make millions in profit for themselves.”

“And I care because…?” Grantaire immediately regrets the question as Enjolras’ eyes take on a chilling layer of ice.

“Because all that money you’re making off murder is going to mean _nothing_ when their non-sustainable model collapses and takes the rest of us with it. _Look_ , I am grateful that you’ve spared my life, I am. But this could mean saving millions more with you barely lifting a finger,” Enjolras continues, tucking a strand of gold behind his ear as his gaze bores uncomfortably into Grantaire’s, who finally looks away.

“Say I agree....What would I have to do?” he asks after several beats.

“Whatever you’re doing right now. Assuming you didn’t tell anyone else, no one but you and one other person knows where I am, and it needs to stay that way,” explains Enjolras, the rigid line of his shoulders smoothing out. “But they’ll want to think you’re getting close. So just… stall them.”

“How long?”

“Few days, maybe a week. That should give me time to get what I need and then I’m gone and you’re off the hook.”

Grantaire meets his gaze again, drawn to the fire that burns there unquenched.

“.... Okay. I can get you a few days,” he relents, and Enjolras breathes through a smile.

“Thank you. I promise, once this is over, I’ll disappear. You won’t even remember me,” Enjolras assures him, and Grantaire grimaces into his mug.

            Because the chances of him ever forgetting Enjolras are rapidly dwindling from slim to laughable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me updating! Go me! I thrive off comments, feed me and then come say hi at hushthenoise.tumblr.com


End file.
